Motel Bellagio

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    The city is a wonderful musical instrument. Black dolls put through sun spots sit by the lobby window growing their hair. The smell of mackerel is fishy, while the earth turns halfway.

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    I stick my fingers in the mackerel can. I didn’t bring a camera. I lean on the window in Room 403, Motel Bellagio, and try counting, a one, a two, the worms. Like a lid, the doll’s pupils pop open,

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    and an old, scaly boy enters the room. He’ll use his black head to paint sleep, like a brush. Beheaded dolls kick open the room door, sweep the dust off the floor. The melted-runny rubber eyes are gathered by the window.

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    If dolls can laugh, I’m happy. The door lock is richly textured. Should I feel up the worm, furtive between the boys and girls stepping hand-in-hand into crude sleep? Now, like manufactured goods, let us take a trip.

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